UC-NRLF 

$B    SS    851 


THE 

FLAM  E 


IN  THE 


W  I  N  D 


VlARliARliT  SrtnLfc  WDtRSON 


CHAUNCEY  WETMORE  WELLS 

1872-1933 


This  book  belonged  to  ChSuncey  Wetmore  Wells.  He  taught  in 
Yale  College,  of  which  he  was  a  graduate,  from  1897  to  1901,  and 
from  1 90 1  to  1933  at  this  University. 

Chauncey  Wells  was,  essentially,  a  scholar.  The  range  of  his  read- 
ing was  wide,  the  breadth  of  his  literary  sympathy  as  uncommon 
as  the  breadth  of  his  human  sympathy.  He  was  less  concerned 
with  the  collection  of  facts  than  with  meditation  upon  their  sig- 
nificance. His  distinctive  power  lay  in  his  ability  to  give  to  his 
students  a  subtle  perception  of  the  inner  implications  of  form, 
of  manners,  of  taste,  of  the  really  disciplined  and  discriminating 
mind.  And  this  perception  appeared  not  only  in  his  thinking  and 
teaching  but  also  in  all  his  relations  with  books  and  with  men. 


^-  A  /^ 


^>^.  J'.  ^^  . 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2007  with  funding  from 

IVIicrosoft  Corporation 


http://www.archive.org/details/flameinwindOOanderich 


The  Flame  in  the  Wind 


BY 


Margaret  Steele  Anderson 


JOHN  p.  MORTON  &  COMPANY 

INCORPORATED 

LomsviLLE,  Kenttjckt 
1914 


'    *  coptbight,  1913, 

By  Margaret  Steele  Anderson 


IN  MEMORIAM 


To  THE  Memory  of  Mt  Brother 
WILLIAM  HAMILTON  ANDERSON 

THIS  LITTLE   VOLUME   IS  DEDICATED 


86S723 


/REPRINT  ''Pain"  and  ''The  Dead  Child'*  by  permission  of 
The  Century  Magazine;  "Work,"  "Allurement,"  "The  Prayer 
of  the  Weak,"  "Michael  AngeWs  Dawn,"  "The  Mystery,"  and  "Not 
this  World,"  by  permission  of  McClure's  Magazine;  "Habit,"  "The 
Breaking,"  "The  Victor,"  "Imagination,"  "The  Dream,"  and  "In 
the  Image  of  God"  by  permission  of  The  American  Magazine; 
"Whistler,"  by  that  of  The  Atlantic ;" Conscience,"  by  that  of  Lip- 
pincotVs;  "Childless,"  by  that  of  The  Cosmopolitan;  "The  Spring 
Afterwards,"  by  that  of  The  Criterion;  "The  Night. Watches,"  by 
that  of  G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons;  and  "The  Violinist,"  by  that  of  The 
Independent. 

M.  S.  A. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE5 


The  Flame  i^i  the  Wind 5 

The  Breaking    6 

Pain 7 

The  Mystery   • 8 

Habit    9 

Not  This  World 10 

In  the  Image  of  Grod 11 

The  Dead  Child  12 

The  Prayer  of  the  Weak 13 

The  Victor 14 

The  Dream    16 

The  Mystic 17 

God,  the  Complement   18 

Work     19 

Michael  Angelo's  ''Dawn" 20 

The  Demeter  of  Praxiteles 21 

Lines  Written  to  a  Translator  of  Greek  Poetry 22 

A  Greek  Lyrist  Sings  of  Apollo 23 

Odes  of  a  Boy 24 

On  a  Pompeiian  Bust  called  ' '  Sappho " 25 

The  Putto    26 

The  Shepherd   27 

Whistler   28 

A  Stage-Figure 29 

The  Church  30 

The  Madonna  of  the  Veil 31 

La  Doleur  de  la  Jeunesse 32 

Song— The  Fallen  Leaves 33 

The  Sin   34 


PAGE 

''From  Sudden  Death  .  .  ."  35 

Autumn    36 

The  Lesser  Beauty  37 

To  the  Fighting  Weak 38 

The  Doubter   39 

Childless 40 

The  Mother   40 

In  the  Dawn  41 

The  Spring  Afterwards 41 

Spring     42 

Imagination   42 

The  Italian  Renaissance  43 

Agostino  di  Duccio   43 

Hawthorne  44 

The  Violinist  45 

Thalia  and  Melpomene   46 

A  Boy's  Virgil   47 

The  Shadow 48 

Allurement     49 

To  the  Men  Who  Went  Down  on  The  Titanic 50 

The  Night- Watches    51 

Courage    52 

The  Angel  and  the  Child 53 

Donatello    54 

Beatrice    54 

The  Invalid  Child 55 

Conscience    55 

The  Trees 56 

Lost  Youth    57 

To  a  Fighter,  Dead 58 

''Where  There  Is  No  Vision  the  People  Perish" 59 


The  Flame  in  the  Wind 


Dost  thou  burn  low  and  tremble — all  but  die  ? 
And  dost  thou  fear  in  darkness  to  be  whirled  ? 
Nay,  flame,  thou  art  mine  immortality, 
The  wind  is  but  the  passing  of  the  world! 


*!;.'*•.  '.  c*:  :.:f/fE  FLAME   IN  THE   WIND 


*  ,''  '  .«'• '. 


THE  BREAKING. 
(The  Lord  God  speaks  to  a  youth.) 

Bend  now  thy  body  to  the  common  weight ! 
(But  oh,  that  vine-clad  head,  those  limbs  of  morn ! 
Those  proud  young  shoulders  I  myself  made  straight! 
How  shall  ye  wear  the  yoke  that  must  be  worn?) 

Look  thou,  my  son,  what  wisdom  comes  to  thee ! 
(But  oh,  that  singing  mouth,  those  radiant  eyes! 
Those  dancing  feet — that  I  myself  made  free! 
How  shall  I  sadden  them  to  make  them  wise?) 

Nay  then,  thou  shalt!    Resist  not,  have  a  care! 
(Yea,  I  must  work  my  plans  who  sovereign  sit! 
Yet  do  not  tremble  so !    I  cannot  bear — 
Though  I  am  God! — to  see  thee  so  submit!) 


THE  FLAME   IN  THE   WIND 


PAIN. 

You  eat  the  heart  of  life  like  some  great  beast, 
You  blacken  the  sweet  sky — ^that  God  made  blue ! 

^You  are  the  death's-head  set  amid  the  feast, 
The  desert  breath,  that  drinks  up  every  dew ! 

And  no  man  lives  that  doth  not  fear  you,  Pain ! 

And  no  man  lives  that  learns  to  love  your  rod ; 
The  white  lip  smiles — but  ever  and  again 

God's  image  cries  your  horror  unto  God! 

And  yet — 0,  Terrible ! — men  grant  you  this : 
You  work  a  mystery ;  when  you  are  done, 

Lo !  common  living  changes  into  bliss, 

Lo !  the  mere  light  is  as  the  noonday  sun ! 


THE  FLAME   IN  THE   WIND 


THE  MYSTERY. 

This  is  your  cup — the  cup  assigned  to  you 
From  the  beginning.    Yea,  my  child,  I  know 

How  much  of  that  dark  drink  is  your  own,  brew 
Of  fault  and  passion.    Ages  long  ago, 

In  the  deep  years  of  yesterday,  I  knew. 

This  is  your  road — a  painful  road  and  drear. 

I  made  the  stones — that  never  give  you  rest; 
I  set  your  friend  in  pleasant  ways  and  clear. 

And  he  shall  come,  like  you,  unto  my  breast; 
But  you — my  weary  child! — must  travel  here. 

This  is  your  work.    It  has  no  fame,  no  grace, 
But  is  not  meant  for  any  other  hand. 

And  in  my  universe  hath  measured  place. 
Take  it;  I  do  not  bid  you  understand; 

I  bid  you  close  your  eyes — to  see  my  face! 


THE  FLAME   IN  THE   WIND 


HABIT. 

So,  then !    Wilt  use  me  as  a  garment  ?    Well, 
'Tis  man's  high  impudence  to  think  he  may; 

But  I,  who  am  as  old  as  heav'n  and  hell, 
I  am  not  lightly  to  be  east  away. 

Wilt  run  a  race  ?    Then  I  will  run  with  thee, 
And  stay  thy  steps  or  speed  thee  to  the  goal; 

Wilt  dare  a  fight?    Then,  of  a  certainty, 
I'll  aid  thy  foeman,  or  sustain  thy  soul. 

Lo,  at  thy  marriage-feast,  upon  one  hand. 
Face  of  thy  bride,  and  on  the  other,  mine ! 

Lo,  at  thy  couch  of  sickness  close  I  stand. 
And  taint  the  cup,  or  make  it  more  benign. 

Yea,  hark!  the  very  son  thou  hast  begot 

One  day  doth  give  thee  certain  sign  and  cry; 

Hold  thou  thy  peace — frighted  or  frighted  not; 
That  look — that  sign — that  presence — it  is  I! 


THE  FLAME   IN  THE   WIND 


NOT  THIS  WORLD. 

Shall  I  not  give  this  world  my  heart,  and  well? 
If  for  naught  else,  for  many  a  miracle 
Of  the  impassioned  spring,  the  rose,  the  snow? 
Nay,  by  the  spring  that  still  must  come  and  go 
When  thou  art  dust,  hy  roses  that  shall  blow 
Across  thy  grave,  and  snows  it  shall  not  miss. 
Not  this  world,  oh,  not  this! 

Shall  I  not  give  this  w^orld  my  heart,  who  find 
Within  this  world  the  glories  of  the  mind — 
That  wondrous  mind  that  mounts  from  earth  to  God? 
Nay,  hy  the  little  footways  it  hath  trod, 
And  smiUs  to  see,  when  thou  art  under  sod. 
And  hy  its  very  gaze  across  the  ahyss. 
Not  this  world,  oh,  not  this! 

Shall  I  not  give  this  world  my  heart,  who  hold 
One  figure  here  above  myself,  my  gold. 
My  life  and  hope,  my  joy  and  my  intent  ? 
Nay,  hy  that  form  whose  strength  so  soon  is  spent. 
That  fragile  garment  that  shall  soon  he  rent. 
By  lips  and  eyes  the  heavy  earth  shall  kiss, 
Not  this  world,  oh,  not  this! 

Then  this  poor  world  shall  not  my  heart  disdain? 
Where  beauty  mocks  and  springtime  comes  in  vain, 
And  love  grows  mute,  and  wisdom  is  forgot? 
Thou  child  and  thankless!    On  this  little  spot 
Thy  heart  hath  fed,  and  shall  despise  it  not; 
Yea,  shall  forget,  through  many  a  world  of  hliss, 
Not  this  world,  oh,  not  this! 

10 


THE  FLAME   IN  THE    WIND 


IN  THE  IMAGE  OF  GOD. 

The  falling  of  a  leaf  upon  thy  way, 
The  flutter  of  a  bird  along  thy  sky, 
Thou  God,  to  whom  the  ages  are  a  day, 
Ev'n  such,  alas! — oh,  ev'n  such  am  I! 

So  long  the  time,  O  Lord,  when  I  was  not. 
And  ah,  so  long  the  time  I  shall  not  be, 
So  strange  and  small,  so  passing  small  my  lot, 
I  cry  aloud  at  thine  immensity! 

Will  not  thy  garment  brush  the  leaf  aside  ? 
Wilt  thou,  eternal,  look  upon  the  fall 
Of  one  poor  bird?     Or  canst  thou,  stooping  wide 
From  thy  great  orbit,  hearken  to  my  call  ? 

0,  little  child— 0,  little  child  and  fool  !— 
My  planets  are  my  gardens,  where  I  go. 
At  morn  and  eve,  at  dawning  and  at  cool. 
To  see  my  living  green  and  mark  it  grow. 

I  know  the  leaves  that  fall  from  every  tree, 
I  know  the  birds  that  nest  those  gardens  through, 
I  hear  the  wounded  sparrow  cry  to  me, 
I  note  that  dying  flutter  on  the  blue. 

Hast  thou  a  spot  on  earth  to  name  it  thine  ? 
Does  any  creature  lift  to  thee  a  cry? 
Behold  !    Thyself  my  token  and  my  siern  ; 
For  ev'n  as  thou  art — so,  my  son,  am  I! 


11 


THE  FLAME   IN  THE   WIND 


THE  DEAD  CHILD. 

C'l  believe    ...    in  the  resurrection  of  the  body.") 

How  young  you  are,  for  such  lone  majesty 

Of  silence  and  repose! 
That  lip  was  vowed  to  laughter  and  that  eye, 

That  white  cheek  to  the  rose ! 

What  age  your  spirit  hath,  who  thinks  to  say  ? 

If  young,  or  young  no  more; 
But  all  for  merriment,  oh,  all  for  play. 

That  new,  sweet  shape  it  wore! 

So,  in  His  time,  to  whom  all  time  is  now. 

From  flower  and  wind  and  steep. 
Shall  He  not  summon  you  to  keep  your  vow, 

Since  He  hath  made  you  sleep? 


12 


THE  FLAME   IN  THE   WIND 


THE  PRAYER  OF  THE  WEAK. 

Lord  of  all  strength — behold,  I  am  but  frail ! 
Lord  of  all  harvest — few  the  grapes  and  pale 
Allotted  for  my  wine-press !    Thou,  0  Lord, 
Who  boldest  in  thy  gift  the  tempered  sword. 
Hast  armed  me  with  a  sapling !    Lest  I  die, 
Then  hear  my  prayer,  make  answer  to  my  cry: 

Grant  me,  I  pray,  to  tread  my  grapes  as  one 
Who  hath  full  vineyards,  teeming  in  the  sun; 
Let  me  dream  valiantly;  and  undismayed 
Let  me  lift  up  my  sapling  like  a  blade ; 
Then,  Lord,  thy  cup  for  mine  abundant  wine, 
Thy  foeman.  Lord,  for  that  white  steel  of  mine! 


13 


THE  FLAME   IN  THE   WIND 


THE  VICTOR. 

"Thou  hast  not  lived!    No  aim  of  earth 
Thy  body  serves — nor  home  nor  birth; 
No  children's  eyes  look  up  to  thee 
To  solace  thy  mortality. 

"Thou  hast  not  lived!    Forbidden  seas 
Shut  thee  from  Beauty's  treasuries; 
Not  for  those  hungry  eyes  of  thine 
Her  marbles  gleam,  her  colors  shine.    - 

* '  Thou  hast  not  lived !    Hast  never  brought 
To  steadfast  form  thy  hidden  thought ; 
Striving  to  speak,  thou  still  art  mute. 
And  fain  to  bear,  hast  yet  no  fruit." 

So  spake  the  Tempter,  at  his  plot, 
But  thee,  my  Soul,  he  counted  not! 
Who  mad'st  me  stand,  serene  and  free. 
And  give  him  answer  dauntlessly: 

"Yea,  shapes  of  earth  are  sweet  and  near. 
And  home  and  child  are  very  dear; 
Yet  do  I  live — to  be  denied 
These  things,  and  still  be  satisfied. 

"Yea,  Beauty's  treasures  all  are  barred 
By  one  dark  hand — so  spare,  so  hard! 
Yet  do  I  live — who  still  can  be 
Their  lover,  though  I  may  not  see. 


14 


THE  FLAME   IN  THE    WIND 


Yea,  it  is  true  that  I  have  wrought 
No  form  divine  from  secret  thought; 
Yet  do  I  live — since  fain  am  I 
To  work  that  marvel  ere  I  die. 

And  if  I  fruitless  seem  to  thee, 
Yet  hath  my  God  some  fruit  of  me ; 
Since  I  can  hear  thee  out — and  bear 
A  spirit  still  for  dreams  and  prayer!" 


15 


THE  FLAME   IN  THE   WIND 


THE  DREAM. 

They  sing  the  race — the  song  is  wildly  sweet ; 

But  thou,  my  harp,  oh  thou  shalt  sing  the  goal ! 
The  distant  goal,  that  draws  the  bleeding  feet 

And  lights  the  brow  and  lifts  the  fainting  soul ! 
(And  yet,  I  know  not ! — Is  the  goal  the  place 
I  dream  it  is  the  while  I  run  the  race?) 

They  sing  the  fight — the  list  'ners  come  in  bands ; 

But  tune  thy  chords,  my  harp,  to  sing  the  prize, 
That  noble  prize  for  which  the  fighter  stands. 

And  bids  his  body  strain  and  agonize ! 
(Yet,  if  I  knew !     O,  is  the  prize  so  bright 
As  I  have  thought  it,  all  this  bitter  fight?) 

They  sing  the  work ;  the  song  makes  labor  fair ; 

But  thou,  my  harp,  shalt  sing  the  labor's  aim. 
The  gleaming  light,  the  beauty  throned  there 

That  calls  the  worker  onward  more  than  fame! 
(But  oh,  I  pray  the  aim  be  what  I  sought 
And  visioned  ceaselessly  the  while  I  wrought!) 

Yet — ^hear  me  not,  0  Watcher  of  the  race ! 

Forgive  me,  0  thou  Giver  of  the  prize ! 
It  is  enough — the  hope  before  my  face. 

It  is  enough — ^the  dream  before  mine  eyes! 
And  this  I  dare:  to  think  thou  hast  not  wrought 
Or  dream  or  ardent  dreamer  all  for  nought! 


16 


THE  FLAME   IN  THE   WIND 


THE  MYSTIC. 

When,  wild  and  spent,  I  fly  before 
Some  steadfast  Fate,  serene,  malign, 

Let  me  not  think — Lord,  I  implore — 
Those  dark  and  awful  eyes  are  thine ! 

Oh,  when  the  dogs  of  life  are  loose, 
And,  raging,  follow  on  my  track. 

Let  me  not  dream,  by  chance  or  use. 
The  leash  was  thine  that  held  the  pack! 

Nay — hunted,  breathless,  faint  and  prone. 
With  my  last  gaze,  ah,  let  me  see 

The  shape  I  know,  nor  shall  disown. 
Thy  shape,  oh  Grod,  that  runs  with  me ! 


17 


THE  FLAME   IN  THE   WIND 


GOD,  THE  COMPLEMENT. 

(*'Nor  does  being  weary  imply  that  there  is  any 
place  to  rest.'') 

Yea,  by  your  wants  bestead, 
You  come  Myself  to  know; 

For  if  I  be  not  bread, 
Why  hunger  so? 

And  if  not  water  I, 

Your  fountain  last  and  first, 

Why  should  your  earth  be  dry? 
Why  should  you  thirst? 

Have  you  not  read  desire? 

Do  you  not  know  your  quest? 
Spirit,  why  should  you  tire 

Were  I  not  rest? 


18 


THE  FLAME   IN  THE   WIND 


WORK. 

Mine  is  the  shape  forever  set  between 

The  thought  and  form,  the  vision  and  the  deed ; 

The  hidden  light,  the  glory  all  unseen, 
I  bring  to  mortal  senses,  mortal  need. 

Who  loves  me  not,  my  sorrowing  slave  is  he, 
Bent  with  the  burden,  knowing  oft  the  rod; 

But  he  who  loves  me  shall  my  master  be, 
And  use  me  with  the  joyance  of  a  god. 

Man's  lord  or  servant,  still  I  am  his  friend; 

Desire  for  me  is  simple  as  his  breath ; 
Yea,  waiting,  old  and  patient,  for  the  end, 

He  prays  that  he  may  find  me  after  death! 


19 


THE  FLAME   IN  THE   WIND 


MICHAEL  ANGELO'S  ''DAWN." 

Dawn — midnight — noonday?   What  are  times  to  thee 
Man's  Grief  art  thou,  that  moanest  with  the  light, 
And  starest  dumb  at  evening — and  at  night 

Dost  wake  and  dream  and  slumber  fitfully ! 

Thou  art  Distress — that  cannot  cry  aloud. 
That  cannot  weep,  that  cannot  stoop  to  tear 
One  fold  of  all  her  garment,  but  with  air 

Supremely  brooding  waits  the  final  shroud ! 

Dust,  long  ago,  the  princes  of  this  place ; 

Forgot  the  civic  losses  which  in  thee 
Great  Angelo  lamented;  but  thy  face 

Proclaims  the  master's  immortality! 
So  sit  thee,  marble  Grief !  this  very  day 
How  burns  the  art  when  long  the  hand  is  clay! 


20 


THE  FLAME   IN  THE   WIND 


THE  DEMETER  OF  PRAXITELES. 

Demeter  ?     'T  is  a  name !    For  in  thy  face 
A  myriad  women  find  their  mourning-place ! 
Thou,  sitting  lonely  on  the  wayside  stone, 
O  pagan  mother,  thou  art  not  alone! 

Though  Hellas  now — thy  grief  so  calmly  worn! — 
Yet  art  thou  Egypt,  reft  of  thy  first-born; 
And  now  lamenting  Rama,  that  fair  head 
With  ashes  strewn,  and  all  uncomforted! 

And  Mary  thou — and  many  women  more! 
This  very  day  I  see  thee  at  my  door; 
Thine  was  the  voice,  an  hour  ago,  that  cried 
From  the  next  house — wherein  a  child  has  died! 


21 


THE  FLAME   IN  THE   WIND 


LINES  WRITTEN  TO  A  TRANSLATOR 
OF  GREEK  POETRY. 

A  wild  spring  upland  all  this  charmed  page, 

Where,  in  the  early  dawn,  the  maenads  rage, 

Mad,  chaste,  and  lovely !  This,  a  darker  spot^ 

Where  lone  Antigone  bewails  her  lot. 

Death  for  her  spouse,  her  bridal-bed  the  tomb. 

And  this,  again,  is  some  rich  palace-room. 

Where  Phsedra  pines:  ''0  woodlands!  0,  the  sea!'* 

Or  some  sweet  walk  of  Sappho,  beauteously 

Built  o'er  with  rose,  with  bloom  of  purple  grapes! 

They  are  all  here — the  ancient  Attic  shapes 

Of  passion,  beauty,  terror,  love,  and  shame; 

Proud  shadows,  you  do  summon  them  by  name : 

Achaean  princes — Helen — ^the  young  god. 

Fair  Dionysus — (Edipus,  who  trod 

Such  ways  of  doom !  Aye,  these  and  more  than  these 

You  call  across  the  ages  and  the  seas! 

And  each  one,  answering,  doth  dream  he  lists 

To  the  great  voices  of  old  tragedists ! 


THE  FLAME   IN  THE   WIND 


A  GREEK  LYRIST  SINGS  OF  APOLLO. 

Ah,  it  was  he  I  heard  at  early  dawn, 
From  the  high  hilltop  and  the  dew-wet  hollow, 
While  I  was  yet  as  tender  as  a  fawn. 
Calling  me,  "Follow!" 

And  it  was  he  who  spoke  at  sultry  noon, 
By  the  bright  pool,  when  Dian  was  away: — 
**  Frail  is  your  harp  as  is  the  crescent  moon, 
Yet  shall  you  play ! ' ' 

Still  do  I  hear  that  calling,  0  Apollo ! 
Though  it  is  far,  and  failing  is  the  light: — 
*'Lo,  you  are  spent,  but  you  shall  rise  and  follow 
Into  the  night!" 


23 


THE  FLAME   IN  THE   WIND 


ODES  OF  A  BOY. 

(At  Keats'  grave— Winter,  1909.) 

Fades  the  great  pyramid,  the  blank  walls  fade ! 

And  thou,  immortal  boy,  dost  walk  with  me 
Along  that  grove  from  out  whose  deeper  shade 

The  nightingale  sings  living  ecstasy. 

And  where  thy  burial-stone  so  long  is  set 
With  plaintive  lines  that  tell  a  day's  despair, 

Lo,  now  that  urn  with  happy  figures  fret 
Which  cannot  fail,  but  go  eternal  fair ! 

Yet — suddenly — the  wind  of  death  is  blown 
On  all  earth 's  beauty,  even  at  its  prime ; 

The  red  rose  drops,  the  hand  of  Joy  is  flown, 
And  thou — oh,  thou  art  dust  this  long,  long  time! 


24 


THE  FLAME   IN  THE   WIND 


ON  A  POMPEIIAN  BUST  CALLED  ''SAPPHO. 

Oh  no,  not  this !   This  is  a  Roman  face, 
Superb,  composed,  with  such  a  matron  grace 
As  that  of  great  Cornelia — never  thee. 
Young  princess  of  an  ancient  poetry! 

Nor  do  I  wish  thy  beauty  from  its  grave; 
Rather,  one  bird  across  the  purple  wave, 
Or  the  mere  sight  of  that  ^gean  sea. 
Shall  tell  thy  mortal  loveliness  to  me! 

Or  I  will  find  some  slender,  broken  plinth. 
And  mark  it  thine  with  wild  blue  hyacinth, 
"While  some  far  fruit,  upon  triumphant  bough. 
Shall  say  how  unattainable  wert  thou! 


26 


THE  FLAME   IN  THE   WIND 


THE  PUTTO. 

No  child,  no  mortal  child  am  I, 
No  angel  from  the  blue  on  high, 
And,  though  I  gayly  dance  and  shout, 
No  Cupid,  from  a  Bacchic  rout. 

But  I  am  all  young  innocence. 
So  young  I  do  not  know  offence. 
So  very  young  I  think  that  I 
Will  catch  that  bird,  that  butterfly. 

Madonna — Lady — Queen  of  Heaven, 
Or  Mother,  whose  red  wounds  are  seven, 
Or  waiting  Virgin,  mild  and  fair. 
See,  I  will  hide  behind  thy  chair! 

And  round  thy  pulpit,  friar  gray, 
Lo,  I  will  frolic  all  the  day ! 
My  ways,  perchance,  are  not  divine. 
But  cannot  hurt  thee — no,  nor  thine! 

And  thou,  0  little  darling  Christ, 
'Tis  long  ere  thou  be  sacrificed; 
Do  beckon  me,  thou  pretty  One, 
And  we  will  sing  and  laugh  and  run ! 

And  at  the  last,  why  then  will  I 
The  earthly  darkness  beautify; 
Dead  Son,  upon  thy  mother's  knee, 
While  Heaven  weeps  blood,  I  garland  thee ! 


26 


THE  FLAME   IN  THE   WIND 


THE  SHEPHERD. 

(On  a  fragment  by  De  Bussy.) 

Thy  slender  form  I  think  I  see 
On  winter  hills  of  Tuscany, 
Thy  slender  pipe  I  think  I  hear, 
So  very  faint,  so  very  clear. 

That  lonely  reed!     It  seems  to  me 

To  sing  thine  own  simplicity, 

For  thou  art  but  a  child  and  young, 

How  should 'st  thou  know  a  subtler  tongue? 

Then,  still  a  child,  I  pray  thee  pass! 
I  would  not  see  thee  with  a  lass. 
Nor  follow  thee  o'er  grass  and  rock. 
As  thou  dost  lead  some  larger  flock. 

Ah  no!  That  little,  wilding  pipe 
I  would  not  give  for  one  more  ripe ; 
E'en  glad  were  I  to  hear  it  spent 
Unchanged — and  thou  still  innocent! 


27 


THE  FLAME   IN  THE   WIND 


WHISTLER. 

(At  the  Exhibit  in  the  Metropolitan  Museum, 
March,  1910.) 

So  sharp  the  sword,  so  airy  the  defence ! 
As  'twere  a  play,  or  delicate  pretence! 
So  fine  and  strange — so  subtly  poised,  too — 
The  egoist,  that  looks  forever  through ! 

That  little  spirit,  air  and  grace  and  fire, 
A-flutter  at  your  frame,  is  your  desire ; 
No,  it  is  you,  who  never  knew  the  net. 
Exquisite,  vain — whom  we  shall  not  forget! 


28 


THE  FLAME   IN  THE  WIND 


A  STAGE-FIGURE. 

(A  painting  by  Whistler.) 

A  thing  of  flesh  and  blood?    Not  so! 
Yet  what  you  are  I  do  not  know. 
A  paper  sword?     A  pasteboard  flame? 
Ah  no,  I  cannot  find  the  name ! 

Whate'er  you  are,  'tis  not  of  earth, 
Nor  did  high  Heaven  give  you  birth; 
A  marionette  your  mother?    Well — 
But  you  were  sired  by  Ariel ! 


THE  FLAME   IN  THE   WIND 


THE  CHURCH. 

Still,  still  thy  garden  hath  its  fruits  and  spices, 

My  Lord,  my  Lord! 
Still  hath  its  wells  and  pools  of  thy  devices, 

My  Lord! 
White,  in  a  stranger  soil,  thy  lily  stands — the  close 

Breathes  with  thy  rose! 

Wild  feet,  mad  feet,  thy  lovely  paths  have  beaten, 

My  Lord,  my  Lord! 
And  sinful  lips  thy  holy  fruits  have  eaten, 

My  Lord! 
Strange  hands  have  tended  me  and  tended  ill,  yet  thou 

Lovest  me — now ! 

So  to  thy  feet  I  offer  my  waste  places. 

My  Lord,  my  Lord! 
0  walk  them  till  they  spring  in  verdant  graces, 

My  Lord! 
With   new  trees   plant — and   from  the   fruits  divine 

Tread  out  thy  wine ! 


30 


THE  FLAME   IN  THE   WIND 


THE  MADONNA  OF  THE  VEIL. 

Light  through  a  little  veil  is  all  thy  trace 

Of  halo,  blessed  Child! 
The  sorrow  of  the  world  is  in  thy  face, 

0  fair,  0  undefiled! 

0  dear  and  undefiled! 

The  kneeling  boy,  with  pretty  lips  apart, 
Half  loves,  half  worships  thee ; 

Baby  and  sweet,  yet  separate  thou  art 
To  that  simplicity, 
To  that  young  piety! 

But  Mary's  look  no  hint  of  anguish  stirs; 

Perfect  that  motherhood; 
One  day  the  bitter  sword — this  day  is  hers ; 

And — God ! — how  very  good ! 

0  gracious  God !    How  good ! 


31 


THE  FLAME   IN  THE   WIND 


LA  DOLEUR  DE  LA  JEUNESSB. 

Ah,  love,  why  love  you  tears? 

What  beauty  in  the  rue? 
Do  you  not  know  the  years 

Shall  bring  their  griefs  to  you, 
To  dew  your  nightly  pillow  ere  you  sleep  ? 
Perchance — hut  let  me  weep! 

No  sorrow  do  you  mourn, 

No  cloud  in  heaven  for  you. 
No  graves  have  you,  forlorn. 

With  salt  tears  to  bestrew. 
Nor  any  field  of  tares  that  you  must  reap. 
Ah  no!    Yet  I  would  weep! 

One  day,  shall  not  your  ships 

Come  sailing  o'er  the  blue. 
With  fruit  and  spice  for  lips. 

And  robes  of  many  a  hue. 
And  gems  and  gold  for  your  white  hands  to  keep  ? 
Yet,  on  the  shore,  I  weep! 

Then  I  my  harp  will  bring, 

And  sing  your  tears  and  ruth; 
More  sweet  than  songs  of  spring 

Sweet  bitterness  of  youth! 
I  will  forget,  one  hour,  that  grief  is  deep, 
And,  singing,  I  will  weep! 


THE  FLAME   IN  THE   WIND 


SONG. 
THE  FALLEN  LEAVES. 


The  bride,  she  wears  a  white,  white  rose — the  plucking,  it 

was  mine; 
The  poet  wears  a  laurel  wreath — and  I  the  laurel  twine; 
And  oh,  the  child,  your  little  child,  that's  clinging  close 

to  you, 
It  laughs  to  wear  my  violets — they  are  so  sweet  and  blue! 

And  I,  I  have  a  wreath  to  wear — ah,  never  rue  nor  thorn! 
I  sometimes  think  that  bitter  wreath  could  be  more  sweetly 

worn! 
For  mine  is  made  of  ghostly  bloom,  of  what  I  can't  forget — 
The  fallen  leaves  of  other  crowns — rose,  laurel,  violet! 


38 


THE  FLAME  IN  THE   WIND 


THE  SIN. 

That  haunting  air  had  some  far  strain  of  it, 
That  morning  rose  hath  flung  it  back  to  met 
The  wind  of  spring,  the  ancient,  awful  sea. 
Bid  me  remember  it. 

And  looking  back  against  the  look  of  Love, 
I  feel  the  old  shame  start  again  and  sting; 
Such  eyes  are  Love's  they  will  not  ask  the  thing, 
But  I  remember  it! 

So  this  one  dream  of  heaven  I  dare  not  dream : 
We  two  in  your  familiar  ways  and  hi^. 
While  you  and  God  forget — and  even  I 
Cannot  remember  it! 


34 


THE  FLAME  IN  THE   WIND 


"FROM  SUDDEN  DEATH.  .  .  ." 

Roses  about  my  way,  and  roses  still ! 
0,  I  must  pick  and  have  my  very  fill ! 
Red  for  my  heart  and  white  upon  my  hair — 
And  still  I  shall  have  roses  and  to  spare ! 

My  child,  I  save  thee  thorns!    Dear  little  friend, 
This  is  the  end! 

So  long  the  road,  so  lone  the  road  and  gray, 
My  bleeding  feet  must  travel  many  a  day ! 
With  not  an  inn  where  I  may  stop  and  rest, 
With  not  a  roof  that  claims  me  for  its  guest ! 

Hush!  the  road  vanishes!     Yes,  yes,  poor  friend, 
This  is  the  end! 

0  I-K)rd,  let  thou  thy  servant  go  in  peace ! 
Now  I  have  rounded  out  life's  perfect  lease, 
Spare  me  the  clouded  brain,  the  dark'ning  eye, 
Nor  let  me  be  a  burden  ere  I  die ! 

Thou  shalt  not  he!     Nay,  even  no^u,  old  friend, 
This  is  the  end! 


35 


THE  FLAME   IN  THE   WIND 


AUTUMN. 

Tainted  with  death  ?    Ah  then,  the  taint  is  sweet ! 

As  if  God  took  the  essences  of  life 

And  burned  them  in  a  brazier  at  his  feet, 

The  smoke  of  them  ascending  rich  and  rife 

To  please  his  nostrils !    What  if  man  be  loath 

To  your  deep  bosom,  and  would  have  the  Spring 

His  bride  forever!    He  who  made  you  both 

Knoweth  your  beauty  for  as  fair  a  thing; 

Like  that  of  one  who  long  hath  been  a  wife. 

And  mothered  men !    As  piercing  as  a  knife, 

And  rich  beyond  all  mortal  imaging! 


36 


THE  FLAME   IN  THE   WIND 


THE  LESSER  BEAUTY. 

You  are  the  first  wild  violet  of  the  year; 

Young  grass  you  are,  and  apple-bloom,  and  spray 

Of  honeysuckle;  you  are  dawn  of  day. 

And  the  first  snow-fall!    It  is  you  I  hear 

When  the  March  robin  calls  me  loud  and  clear. 

Or  lonely  rill  goes  singing  on  its  way 

Like  some  small  flute  of  heav'n;  or  when  the  gray 

Sad  wood-dove  calls  and  early  stars  appear. 

And  you  it  is  within  the  wayside  shrine 
Carved  tenderly ;  and  in  the  folded  wings 
On  some  neglected  tomb ;  and  in  the  vine 
And  leaf  and  saint  of  old  imaginings 
On  some  forgotten  missal — ^little  things 
We  would  not  barter  for  things  more  divine ! 


37 


THE  FLAME   IN  THE  WIND 


TO  THE  FIGHTING  WEAK. 

Stand  up,  you  Strong !  Touch  glasses !  To  the  Weak ! 

The  Weak  who  fight :  or  habit  or  disease, 
Birth,  chance,  or  ignorance — or  awful  wreak 

Of  some  lost  forbear,  who  has  drained  the  cup 
Of  passion  and  wild  pleasure !  So !  To  these. 

You  strong,  you  proud,  you  conquerors — stand  up! 

Touch  glasses !    You  shall  never  drink  a  glass 
So  salt  of  tears,  so  bitter  through  and  through, 

As  they  must  drink,  who  cannot  hope  to  pass 
Beyond  their  place  of  trial  and  of  pain, 

Who  cannot  match  their  trifling  strength  with  you; 
To  these,  touch  glasses — and  the  glasses  drain ! 

They  cannot  build,  they  never  break  the  trail. 

No  city  rises  out  of  their  desires ; 
They  do  the  little  task,  and  dare  not  fail 

For  fear  of  little  losses — or  they  keep 
The  humble  path  and  sit  by  humble  fires; 

They  know  their  places — all  these  fighting  Weak! 

Yet  what  -have  you  to  show  of  tears  and  blood, 

That  mates  their  blood  and  tears  ?  What  shaft  have  you, 

To  mark  the  dreadful  spots  where  you  have  stood. 
That  rises  to  the  height  of  one  poor  stone 

Proclaiming  one  poor  triumph  to  the  blue  ? 

Ah,  you  have  nothing !    Then  stand  up  and  own ! 

And  yet  you  shall  not  pity  them !    They  bear 
The  stripe  of  some  far  coufage  that  to  you 

Is  all  unknown — and  you  shall  never  wear 
Such  splendor  as  they  bring  to  some  last  cup ; 

You  do  not  fight  the  desperate  fight  they  do ; 

Then — ^to  the  Weak !   Touch  glasses !  standing  up ! 

38 


THE  FLAME   IN  THE   WIND 


THE  DOUBTER. 

0  friendly,  that  I  never  knew  for  friend, 

0  flame,  that  never  warmed  me  from  the  cold, 

0  light,  that  never  beckoned  to  an  end, 
Give  me  but  once  thy  beauty  to  behold ! 

Thou,  Faith!     Who  never  held  before  mine  eyes 
Or  wreath  of  bay  or  life's  diviner  rose, 

Lift  up  thy  face  against  my  sombre  skies 
And  let  me  see  thee  ere  mine  eyelids  close ! 

Come,  lighten  mine  as  thou  dost  other  ways. 
Come,  conquer  me  if  only  for  an  hour ! 

0  beckon  with  that  shadowy  wreath  of  bays! 
0  lift  to  me  that  unimagined  flow'r! 


39 


THE  FLAME   IN  THE   WIND 


CHILDLESS. 

Up  to  the  little  grave,  with  blossoms  kept, 
They  went  together;  and  one  hid  her  face, 

And  spoke  aloud  the  boy's  dear  name,  and  wept. 
The  other  woman  stood  apart  a  space. 

And  prayed  to  God.    "If  only  I,"  she  said, 

''Might  keep  a  grave,  and  mourn  my  little  dead!" 


THE  MOTHER. 

Yes,  Lord,  I  know!    The  child  is  thine 
And  in  thy  house  he  shall  grow  up. 
Nor  know  the  lash  of  life,  nor  cup 
Of  trembling,  as  if  child  of  mine. 

But  ah — forgive  me! — is  he  warm? 
And  fed?    Or  does  he  miss  my  breast? 
Oh,  I  blaspheme!     But  can  he  rest. 
And  never  cry,  in  Mary's  arm? 


40 


THE  FLAME   IN  THE  WIND 


IN  THE  DAWN. 

At  night  it  is  not  strange  that  thou  art  dead ; 
I  give  thee  to  the  stars,  the  moonlight  snow; 
But  ah,  when  desolate  I  lift  my  head, 
And  thou  art  gone  at  early  morning — No ! 


THE  SPRING  AFTERWARDS. 

Ah,   give  again  the  pitiless  snow  and  sleet — 
November's  leaves — or  raving  winds,  that  beat 
The  heart's  own  doors — or  rain's  long  ache  and  fret! 
Only,  not  spring  and  all  this  delicate  sweet! 
Or  not  this  vision  of  a  girl,  so  set 
In  April  grass,  in  April  violet! 


41 


THE  FLAME'^IN  THE   WIND 


SPRING. 

I  am  a  virgin — whom  no  man  hath  known, 

And  all  desire  to  know.    The  figure  I 

Of  mortal  dream  and  mortal  prophecy. 

Thou  desert  Sphinx,  with  thy  gray  lips  of  stone, 

Keep  thy  poor  secret — I  have  kept  mine  own ! 


IMAGINATION. 

With  the  old  gods  thou  walkest,  'mid  the  leaf 
And  bloom  of  ancient  morning  and  of  light ; 

Thou  die'st  with  Christ,  and  with  the  nailed  thief 
That  dies  upon  his  left  hand  and  his  right. 

Yea,  thou  descendest  into  hell — and  then 

To  the  last  heaven  dost  take  thy  road  sublime ; 

Thine  hostelries  the  secret  souls  of  men, 
Thy  servants  all  the  fleeting  things  of  time ! 


42 


THE  FLAME  IN  THE   WIND 


THE  ITALIAN  RENAISSANCE. 

How  splendid  and  how  vain  in  thee 

The  ancient  quest,  0  Italy ! 

Too  strange  that  wreath,  too  strangely  worn, 

Apollo's  laurel — Christ's  red  thorn! 


AGOSTINO  DI  DUCCIO. 

The  chime  of  silver  bells ;  the  sweet 

Wild  rush  of  fairy  wings  and  feet ; 

The  fluting  birds  of  dawn ;  the  small 

And  crystal  music  of  the  waterfall. 

Or  piping  of  some  lone  and  hidden  faun ; 

All  this  you  were — and  suddenly  were  not 

A  moment's  Ariel — centuries  forgot! 


43 


THE  FLAME   IN  THE   WIND 


HAWTHORNE. 

Child — ^lover — servant — ^master  of  Romance, 
To  you  she  showed,  not  splendid  of  attire, 
With  gaud  and  grace,  but  all  to  your  desire 
In  lonelier  hues  of  solemn  radiance ! 
Long  years  you  followed  her,  and  at  her  glance, 
As  at  some  word,  divinely  sweet  or  dire, 
Beheld  the  souls  of  men,  in  shapes  of  fire, 
Through  veiling  flesh  look  out  to  her  askance. 

You  saw  the  brand  upon  unbranded  breast ; 
From  evil  heart  you  saw  the  witches  wind; 
You  saw  dark  passion  breed  in  frolic  youth ; 
And  yet,  with  sight  all  delicate  and  blest, 
You  knew  the  primrose  of  a  maiden's  mind, 
You  took  of  shame  the  grave  white  flower  of  truth ! 


THE  FLAME   IN   THE  WIND 


THE  VIOLINIST. 

But  that  one  air  for  all  that  throng !  And  yet 
How  wondrously  the  magic  strain  went  through 
Those  thousand  hearts!    I  saw  young  eyes,  that  knew 
Only  the  fairest  sights,  grow  dim  and  wet, 
While  eyes  long  fed  on  visions  of  regret 
Beheld  life's  rose,  upspringing  from  its  rue; 
For  some,  the  night-wind  in  thy  music  blew, 
For  some,  the  spring's  celestial  clarinet! 

And  each  heart  knew  its  own :  the  poet  heard. 
Ravished,  the  song  his  lips  could  never  free ; 
The  girl,  her  lover's  swift,  impassioned  word; 
The  mother  thought,  ''O  little,  buried  face!" 
And  one,  through  veil  of  doubt  and  agony, 
Saw  Christ,  alone  in  the  dim  garden-place ! 


45 


THE  FLAME   IN   THE   WIND 


THALIA  AND  MELPOMENE. 

The  night  would  sadden  us  with  wind  and  rain — 

Let's  to  sweet  Comedy  and  scorn  the  night ! 

Let's  read  together:  how,  by  silver  light, 

The  fairies  went,  a  most  enchanting  train. 

Amid  those  clowns  and  lovers;  how  the  twain, 

Celia  and  Rosalind,  as  shepherds  dight. 

Frolicked  through  Arden;  or  of  that  rare  sprite, 

That  Ariel,  who  could  trick  the  mortal  brain 

To  strange  beliefs.     What!  wilt  have  nothing  glad? 

Wilt  read,  while  winds  are  moaning  out  regret. 

The  fate  of  Desdemona — Juliet? 

Lovest  the  rain  to  come  and  make  thee  sad? 

Ah,  well! — I  know! — How  sweet  the  tragic  part! 

I  am  grown  old,  but  once — was  what  thou  art  I 


46 


THE  FLAME   IN  THE  WIND 


A  BOY'S  VIRGIL. 

Dust  on  the  page,  from  these  forgetful  years ! 
I  brush  it  off,  to  see  the  fading  date 
Written  in  boyish  hand;  to  find  through  tears 
The  lad's  dear  name,  inscribed  with  all  the  state 
Of  the  first  day's  possession;  and  to  read 
Along  the  tell-tale  margin,  scribbled  thick. 
Here  is  the  note — 'twas  writ  with  guilty  speed — 
And  here  the  sketch,  with  guilty  pencil  quick; 
And  here's  a  picture!    Was  she  ever  so? 
Were  these  her  curls  and  this  her  merry  look 
Who  lieth  in  her  old  green  grave  as  low 
As  he  is  lying  ?    Ah,  this  faded  book ! 
I  think  not  of  the  bold  and  storied  wrong 
Done  for  a  woman's  fairness,  nor  of  strong 
And  god-like  heroes,  nor  of  beauteous  youth 
In  game  and  battle — but,  with  heart  of  ruth, 
About  this  boy,  who  laughed  and  played  and  read 
So  carelessly !    Ah,  how  long  he  is  dead ! 


47 


THE  FLAME   IN  THE   WIND 


THE  SHADOW. 

Get  you  away!  Is  not  the  rose  at  flow'r? 

And  list  that  song !  The  bird  is  in  the  sky ! 
Ah,  foolish  one,  I  know  your  final  hour, 

I  know  the  very  place  where  you  shall  lie. 

Silence !   The  music,  and  the  bridal-train ! 

Do  you  not  see  the  maidens  in  their  white? 
Along  that  whiteness,  lo,  I  am  the  stain, 

And  darken  where  the  Lord  of  all  shall  smite! 

Yet  leave  me,  Shadow,  leave  the  day  dear-bought 
When  the  swift  runner  reaches  to  the  goal! 

That  day  is  mine — and  at  the  end,  unsought, 
I  ask  the  runner's  body  from  his  soul. 

Then  hast  thou  all !   The  beautiful,  the  brave ! 

Nothing  untouched,  dark  Visitant,  of  thee! 
Oh  blinded  Reason!  Sweeter  for  the  grave. 

And  fair  a  thousand-fold  because  of  me! 


48 


THE  FLAME   IN  THE   WIND 


ALLUREMENT. 

From  yonder  hedge,  from  yonder  spray, 
He  calls  me  onward  and  away; 
Broad  lies  the  world  and  fair  <  to  see, 
The  cuckoo  calls — is  calling  me! 

I  have  not  seen  nor  heard  of  Care, 
Who  used  my  very  bed  to  share, 
Since  that  first  morn  when,  airily, 
The  cuckoo,  calling,  called  to  me! 

My  sweetheart's  face?    I  have  forgot; 
My  mother?    But  she  calls  me  not; 
From  that  green  bank,  from  that  dim  lea, 
The  cuckoo  calls — is  calling  me ! 

And  I  must  go — I  may  not  choose ; 
No  gain  there  is,  nor  aught  to  lose ; 
And  soon — ah,  soon ! — on  some  wild  tree 
The  bird  sits  long  and  waits  for  me ! 


49 


THE  FLAME   IN  THE   WIND 


TO  THE  MEN  WHO  WENT  DOWN  ON  THE  TITANIC. 

(News  Item:  ''It  remains  true  that  two  hundred  English 

and  American  men  were  sacrificed  for  as  many 

peasant  women.") 

Once  more  I  read,  writ  out  in  hlood  and  tears, 
Across  this  midnight  page  of  sea  and  sky, 
The  legend  of  our  English  race  that  fears, 
0  never  death,  but  to  refuse  to  die ! 

Soldier  and  merchant,  men  of  bench  and  bar, 
Of  brush  and  pen,  of  gold  deep-multiplied. 
To  those  poor  women,  peasants  from  afar. 
You  gave  your  places,  and  in  giving  died! 

Yet  not  for  these,  oh,  not  for  these  alone. 
You  made  the  last,  the  lasting  sacrifice ! 
On  those  dark  seas  great  Honor  called  her  own. 
All  women's  faces  set  before  their  eyes! 

Lord  of  the  virtues,  spare,  O  spare  us  suchl 
We  cannot  live  without  this  grace  from  thee ; 
Gold,  statecraft,  beauty — yea,  we  need  them  much. 
But  more — ah,  Grod ! — this  ancient  gallantry ! 


50 


THE  FLAME   IN  THE   WIND 


THE  NIGHT-WATCHES. 

The  laurel  withers  on  your  brow, 
0  victor,  weary  of  the  race ! 
And  you,  who  sit  in  mighty  place, 
How  heavy  is  your  scepter  now! 

Flushed  with  the  kiss  your  lips  have  known, 
"Woman,  this  is  your  hour  to  wake. 
And  know  that  flesh  and  heart  may  break 
When  love  hath  entered  on  its  own. 

And  you,  who  knew  where  angels  trod. 
And  marked  the  path  for  duller  eyes. 
In  this  lone  hour  are  you  still  wise? 
Do  you  not  quail  before  your  God? 

0  God,  to  whom  the  dark  is  day. 
Forget  not  these,  the  strong,  the  right. 
The  happy  souls — for.  Lord,  at  night 
They  tremble  in  their  tents  of  clay! 


51 


THE  FLAME   IN  THE   WIND 


COURAGE. 

I  thank  thee,  Life,  that  though  I  be 
This  poor  and  broken  thing  to  see, 
I  still  can  look  with  pure  delight 
Upon  thy  rose — ^the  red,  the  white. 

And  though  so  dark  my  own  demesne, 
My  neighbor's  fields  so  fair  and  green, 
I  thank  thee  that  my  soul  and  I 
Can  fare  along  that  grass  and  sky. 

Yet  am  I  weak!  Ere  I  be  done. 
Give  me  one  spot  that  takes  the  sun ! 
Give  me,  ere  I  uncaring  rest. 
One  rose — to  wear  it  on  my  breast ! 


62 


THE  FLAME   IN  THE   WIND 


THE  ANGEL  AND  THE  CHILD. 

*  *  0,  was  it  on  that  awful  road, 

The  way  of  death,  you  came?" 

*'It  was  a  little  road,"  he  said, 
'*I  never  knew  its  name." 

* '  Is  it  not  rough  along  that  road  ? '  * 

'*I  cannot  tell,"  said  he, 
*'Up  to  your  gate,  in  her  two  arms. 

My  mother  carried  me." 

''And  will  you  show  me  Christ?"  he  said, 
''And  must  we  seek  Him  far?" 

"That  is  our  Lord,  with  children  round. 
Where  little  blue-bells  are." 

"Why,  so  my  mother  sits  at  night, 
When  all  the  lights  are  dim! 
0,  would  He  mind — would  it  be  right — 
If  I  should  sit  by  Him?" 


53 


THE  FLAME   IN  THE   WIND 


DONATELLO. 

Child  of  the  North,  within  thy  Northern  eyes 
How  brood  and  burn  the  restless  mysteries! 
Blooded  of  Hellas — thy  dark  brows  between, 
That  spray  of  antique  laurel,  how  serene! 


BEATRICE. 

Vision  of  light,  above  triumphal  car — 

Vision  of  guidance — star  of  ev'ry  star — 

And  throned  saint  within  the  great  white  Rose, 

I  follow  thee:  the  book  at  last  to  close, 

And  see  again,  while  sun  and  stars  grow  less, 

A  little  girl,  in  little  crimson  dress! 


54 


THE  FLAME   IN  THE   WIND 


THE  INVALID  CHILD. 

When  I  see  other  women's  sons  at  play, 
God,  pity  me,  lest  I  should  turn  away 
In  rage  and  grief,  and  should  not  dare  to  look 
At  my  child,  sitting  patient  with  his  book ! 

But  when  their  sons  hold  all  the  world  in  fee, 
With  young  men's  pride — oh,  then  think  not  of  me! 
Load  me  with  burdens,  let  me  feel  the  rod, 
And  give  my  son  his  manhood,  0  my  God! 


CONSCIENCE. 

Wisdom  am  I  when  thou  art  but  a  fool ; 
My  part  the  man,  when  thou  hast  played  the  clod ; 
Hast  lost  thy  garden?    When  the  eve  is  cool, 
Harken! — 'tis  I  who  walk  there  with  thy  God! 


55 


THE  FLAME   IN  THE   WIND 


THE  TREES. 

When  on  the  spring's  enchanting  blue 
You  trace  your  slender  leaves  and  few, 
Then  do  I  wish  myself  re-born 
To  lands  of  hope,  to  lands  of  morn. 

And  when  you  wear  your  rich  attire, 

Your   autumn  garments,   touched  with  fire, 

I  want  again  that  ardent  soul 

That  dared  the  race  and  dreamed  the  goal. 

But,  oh,  when  leafless,  dark  and  high, 
You  rise  against  this  winter  sky, 
I  hear  God's  word:  "Stand  still  and  see 
How  fair  is  mine  austerity!" 


56 


THE  FLAME   IN  THE  WIND 


LOST  YOUTH. 

(For  a  friend  who  mourns  its  passing.) 

He  took  the  earth  as  earth  had  been  his  throne; 
And  beauty  as  the  red  rose  for  his  eye ; 
''Give  me  the  moon,"  he  said,  "for  mine  alone; 
Or  I  will  reach  and  pluck  it  from  the  sky ! ' ' 

And  thou,  0  Life,  dost  mourn  him — for  the  day 
Has  darkened  since  the  gallant  youngling  went; 
And  smaller  seems  thy  dwelling-place  of  clay 
Since  he  has  left  that  valley  tenement. 

But  oh,  perchance,  beyond  some  utmost  gate. 
While  at  the  gate  thy  stranger  feet  do  stand. 
He  shall  approach  thee — beautiful,  elate. 
Crowned  with  his  moon,  the  red  rose  in  his  hand ! 


THE  FLAME  IN  THE   WIND 


TO  A  FIGHTER,  DEAD. 

Pass,  pass,  you  fiery  spirit !    Never  bland 

And  halting  never!    Hosted  round  to-night, 

At  the  great  wall,  with  spears  of  lifted  light, 

Held  by  embattled  seraphim,  who  stand 

To  greet  their  friend,  their  comrade,  and  their  own! 

Doubtless,  0  spirit  made  for  burning  war. 

Doubtless  your  God  has  need  of  you  afar. 

To  lead,  for  Him,  some  heav'nly  fight  and  lone. 

And  therefore  knights  you — thus,  before  the  throne! 


58 


THE  FLAME   IN  THE   WIND 


''WHERE  THERE  IS  NO  VISION  THE 
PEOPLE  PERISH." 

Spare  us,  0  Lord,  that  last,  that  dreariest  ill ! 

Thy  wrath's  grim  thunder,  and  thy  lightning-scorn 

For  our  iniquity — that  we  have  worn 

Soft  as  a  grace — these,  if  it  be  thy  will, 

But  not  unsouled  darkness !    Not  the  chill 

Dead  air,  in  which  men  move  a  while  forlorn 

And  swiftly  fail !    Oh,  break  us,  make  us  mourn 

With  tears  of  blood — but  let  us  see  thee  still ! 

For  we  have  visioned  thee!    Once,  long  ago, 

0  'er  sea  and  wilderness  a  cloud  of  fire. 

Thou  led'st  us  forth;  'mid  many  a  shame  and  woe. 

We  still  have  dreamed  apocalypse ;  at  last. 

Ah,  go  not  out,  thou  Flame  of  all  the  past! 

Burn,  thou  bright  Ardor — ^burn,  thou  great  Desire! 


59 


raiS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LA..  . 

STAMPED  BEWW^^°^^= 


re  43276 


863T23 


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